Saccharine
by MickeyMonroe
Summary: It should have been inconsequential; but after he had gone back, replayed it in his mind over and over, examined every angle, derived every constant (for this is what he did best), he would find that the very moment his enormous, indulgent life became as fragile as a bird caught in a storm was the exact moment that John brought in the morning mail. Molly Hooper was getting married.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock supposed, in a way that only a self-proclaimed genius could, that it was humorous; the way life, as trivial and predictable as it was, still managed to devour him alive through the series of events that should have been tiny, tiny things to one such as him.

Yes, he supposed, that were someone, somewhere, watching him through the smudged lens of a divine camera (or Mycroft. Mycroft would laugh too.), they would find it amusing that this mountain, this Narcissus, this pantheon of human intelligence could be ripped from his very foundation by something so insignificant.

It should have been inconsequential; but after he had gone back, replayed it in his mind over and over, examined every angle, derived every constant (for this is what he did best), he would find that the very moment his enormous, indulgent life became as fragile as a bird caught in a storm was the exact moment that John brought in the morning mail.

Long, careful, slender fingers weighed the stiff paper in their grasp (heavy, expensive, cardstock) as the removed the card from within, wincing at the sound as it slid free. The writing was intricate and looped; the letters curling fluidly across a cream landscape (professional print), and a tiny, dried forget-me-not occupied the lower right corner (sumptuous, silly…Molly's favorite).

It was a long moment before the swirling text would make sense in his brain.

_You are cordially invited to the wedding of Daniel Hawthorne and Margaret Hooper! _(His name is printed before hers: he ordered the invitations. Egotistical. Prudish. Molly hated her full name; arrogant. Uncaring.)

_May the 3__rd__ at 5:00 pm, Lauriston Gardens _(Molly always wanted a spring wedding.)

_Please join us for a lovely dinner at Hawthorne Manor! 768 Walter's Yard, Bromley._ (Wealthy. Extravagant spender.)

He read the details once more, unconsciously calculating the minutes from 221 B. Baker Street to 768 Walter's Yard. There were too many. It made him uncomfortable.

He didn't understand.

For the life of him, he couldn't understand what was happening; why this tiny slip of paper felt so heavy, why the words were burning into his subconscious like a brand, why he felt such similarity to the dry, cracking flower in the corner of the page (Molly's favorite.)

Why did he know that? Why did he even _know_ what her favorite damn flower was? Why did he know that she hated her full name and wanted a spring wedding and three children and another cat so that Toby would have a friend? He _knew_ what her favorite color was (yellow) and how she took her coffee (3 sugars, an absurd amount of cream, and a dash of nutmeg) and what she wanted to _name _those 3 children (Jenny, Rose, and Nathan). All of these things that she had rambled off while he worked, seeming irrelevant then, had somehow been intricately woven into the walls of his mind palace.

Besides all this, he knew that Daniel would probably be good for her. Be tender, buy her beautiful things. Everything she deserved. He knew she would be an excellent mother. Kind, attentive, loving. He knew she would give up her job for them, although she loved her work at Bart's. She would give _him_ up.

And the fact that it was probably the most beneficial thing for her to do wrapped around his mysteriously throbbing heart with icy talons, squeezing tight. In ever memory, _every bloody memory_ he had of Molly Hooper (he went over them now with such detail), she had left him with tears in her eyes; that broken, silent expression of utter hurt and it tore at him now.

Even at Bart's in the dark.

_"You've always counted and I've always trusted you."_

_ "What do you need?"_

He had been playing her even then. He needed her pathology expertise in order to win the game, to fake his death, but only now did those words rip at him with a clarity he had been blatantly ignoring since his return. Sherlock Holmes didn't need anything. Didn't need anyone. But in that moment: that single, fragile moment of vulnerability, Sherlock Holmes needed Molly Hooper.

And it was _far_ too late.

Fingers tightened around the blasted card, crushing and crushing until the fragile scrap was nothing more than a wrinkled accordion, and Sherlock Holmes pressed his forehead against his bedroom wall, closing his eyes in despair.

Damn him if he cried.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Here you go,you heartaching sillies.**

Suddenly, he threw the dried husk of the invitation down and wrenched his door open.

He couldn't think. Couldn't think about what he was doing or his brain wouldn't let him do it. He ran.

His bare feet slipped on the carpet, but a hand caught the doorframe and he used the momentum to launch himself down the stairway.

"Sherlock, sweetie!" Ms. Hudson cried as he barreled down the hall. "Where are you going in such a rush?"

"Out!" he cried, dashing past her startled frame.

"In your dressing down and pajamas?" she called.

No answer.

He hit the pavement running.

It was icy cold outside; a byproduct of the late November chill and frigid rain lashed at his body. He wished for his coat, but he was too far gone already.

(Rain. Cabs will be taken, traffic will be too slow. Alley behind Angelo's, right from there, down past the Museum, two industrial buildings, 3 shops, left at the barber's.)

The skin of his feet slapped against the cold cement as he tore through town, winding past bewildered tourists and the average city dwellers while they gawked at his apparel. The rain was soaking him to the skin and gooseflesh prickled over the expanse of him, but he couldn't stop. Not now. Not ever.

Before he could double cross himself, he was banging on her door with a numb fist, chest heaving, water dripping from his hair in rivulets, his heart pounding hard against the calcium confines of his ribs; and it may not have just been from the run.

Her door swung inward, and everything froze.

She was achingly beautiful. Familiar white lab coat, her long, brown hair cascading over one shoulder. Lips parted in shock, eyes frozen in despair and wonder.

His breath caught in his lungs. The whole Earth stopped in its tracks and everything hung on the precipice of this moment because he was Sherlock Holmes and he was _afraid_.

Standing there, still as stone, dripping on her front stoop, staring at her while she stared back at him. While every living thing held its breath.

"Sherlock?" she breathed.

That was it.

He lunged forward without another thought, clutching her shoulders hard enough to bruise with his long, careful fingers; slamming his mouth against hers violently because he couldn't be gentle. Couldn't be careful.

When she didn't respond, grew rigid beneath his touch, he wanted to leave. Wanted to turn around and go, but the wetness on his face might not all have been rain water at that point and he couldn't let her see that, so he tucked his damp face into the soft skin of her neck. His heart was aching with a tangible pain, his muscles felt weakened, his bones, weary and drained, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up in her arms and _stop _feeling like he would _die_ if she left him, but he couldn't let her see that. So instead, he scrunched his fingers in the starchy material of her lab coat waist and breathed her in (lemons and cinnamon and home) and tried desperately not to fall into her warmth.

But Molly Hooper would always catch him (she always did). And when her tiny, strong hands curled themselves into the soggy material over his chest, he finally let her.

All he could say was "I'm sorry." Because he was Sherlock Holmes and he couldn't say anything else. Couldn't say the words that burned up his throat and tightened in his abdomen, but he hoped beyond anything that she would understand.

(_I love you, Molly Hooper. Don't leave me. I love you.) _


End file.
